


Hugs

by AnselaJonla



Series: Prompt fills [27]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 23:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20161801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnselaJonla/pseuds/AnselaJonla
Summary: A fic written for a prompt on the r/WritingPrompts subreddit:[WP]I've always had a 6th sense. I can tell the the last time I will ever do something. Today I hugged my son for the last time.





	Hugs

I spend the day in a daze, wondering what is going to happen, when I'll get the phonecall or the knock at the door that will shatter my life to pieces. I dread becoming a mother without a child to call her own, yet I just _know_ that's what's going to happen.

Is it going to be a car accident? My son isn't as careful a driver as I'd like him to be, always speeding and taking risks. Or is he going to be knocked down? No matter how many times I tell him to, he never waits for the lights if he thinks it's clear. Or maybe it'll be at work on the railway? I just can't tell.

Sometimes the deaths are expected, and even a kindness. My dad passed in hospital, after battling with dementia for years and suffering several strokes. He wasn't himself any more. Mum followed him less than a day later, broken-hearted and unwilling to live without him. My brother was taken by an aggressive form of pancreatic cancer.

Others are just daft, like my husband choking on a peanut while showing off to his mates down the pub. I loved the man, and he gave me a wonderful son, but he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer by any means.

I force myself to go about my daily life. I can't, I _won't_ start mourning until the worst has happened. The reality is that I can go a month without seeing my son, as his work takes him all over the country.

When the door bell rings a week later, I jump out of my skin. Dread settles in the pit of my stomach. Is this it? The news hasn't reported any accidents on the railway, or any major traffic accidents.

The silhouette through the frosted glass is familiar. It's Daniel, it's my son. Could my sixth sense have been... wrong?

He's twitchy, nervous. And there's something strange about him, something I can't put my finger on. Still, I shove the biscuit tin at him and tell him to park his arse in his usual spot, while I make his usual cup of tea. Once I sit down with my own, he looks at me, his expression serious.

"Mum, I've got something to tell you, and I don't know how to say it. It's really, really big. And... you might not want to see me after you know."

Oh god? Has my son _killed_ someone? Been doing drugs? Been stealing from work? Now I'm _really_ worried.

"I'd like it if you called me Danielle from now on."

Huh? What? I open my mouth to ask what he means, but he shakes his head.

"Let me speak mum, please. I've always felt different, like I'm not really a bloke. I wanted to play with the girls, and not in the same way the other boys meant. I wanted to play dressup and dolls and other girl games, instead of what the boys were doing. I never told anyone, because I didn't want to be bullied. Remember how I always got into your clothes and makeup, and you just brushed it off as me being a typical mischievous boy? I was just trying to look like _you_."

Daniel... Danielle stops and takes a sip of his... her tea. _She's_ watching me intently, as if terrified of my reaction. Terrified of rejection.

I take a deep breath, unsure of my own feelings on the matter. Still, this is _my child_. I'm not going to just cut him... her (this is going to take some adjusting) out of my life over something like _this_. Eventually I know what to say.

"I guess this explains the hair," I joke. Danielle's hair is longer than mine, and now I realise that she's actually been and had it styled. There's waves in it, which weren't there last week. "And I see you've learned how to do your makeup. I think I still have pictures of the last time you tried."

"Mum! I was _eight_, give me a break." Tension gone.

My sense was right, I have hugged my son for the last time. But I haven't even hugged my _daughter_ for the first time. I fix that immediately.


End file.
